The Stone Wallpaper
by GinGitsuneIX
Summary: They are here, lurking beneath the patterns that cover the walls of the basement. That is where they are; in the wallpaper. They are behind the walls, and they want to come in. Yes, let them come in; let the Titans in. A modern The Yellow Wallpaper (by Charlotte Perkins Gilman) AU


I could hardly believe that Dad was able to afford to rent this mansion over the summer. Its Victorian architecture and neglected maintenance make it look like the stereotypical haunted house in cheap horror movies, but that didn't change the fact that the house – which was actually closer to a castle – was absolutely amazing. I couldn't help but gape dumbly at the mansion when we first arrived here with our family car packed with our suitcases and the occasional boxes. Even Mikasa, whose face is usually blank like a statue looked slightly awed, with her dark eyes widened slightly and pale lips parted. It was the most emotion I had seen on my adopted sister in quite a long time.

Despite the gaudy extravagance of the building, I couldn't help but feel weary about entering the house. To tell the truth, it's my belief that this house is haunted. I mean, why else would such an amazing estate be abandoned for anyone to rent at such a ridiculously low price? Mikasa apparently noticed my hesitation when I didn't move to take out my bags from the trunk of the car and raised an eyebrow at me, but I simply shook my head and followed her and Dad's example to bring in our possessions. I knew that I could never share my illogical worries with either members of my family. They were both very practical people who relied strongly on logic, and dismissed religion and superstition mockingly.

You see, my Dad is a renowned doctor that is well known and respected by the people of my small home town Shiganshina, after he developed a cure for a disease that swept through our meagre population not very long ago. He is a pure atheist, and my sister never concerned herself with anything lacking solid proof. She is a very believe-what-you-see kind of person.

My mum was the only person who actually listened to me when I was afraid of noises I heard at night, or when my friends at school told me I would have bad luck because a black cat ran passed me on my way to class. She would always sit me on her lap and wipe away my tears, telling me that while I had her nothing could touch me, and that in exchange I had to protect her from the monsters too. Whenever I hooked my pinkie wither hers and swore to do as she asked, I always felt so much better that I could give something back to her. I loved her so dearly, and still do. The pain from finding her dangling from the ceiling in her bedroom last year is still raw from all the reminders I had of her back in our old house.

That is why we are here now, moving into a secluded mansion buried deep within dense woodland in the rural countryside of Maria; to get away from the presence of my Mother. You see, after her death I was in so much grief and emotional torment that I simply could not function normally. I could never learn anything at school, and my temper seemed to be chiselled away every time someone so much as mentioned my deceased mother. No one could talk about her. I was the one who loved her most, and I couldn't handle people who meant so little to her waste her beautiful name on their vile lips. I couldn't take it. So when my Dad was called up at work by my high school because I broke Jean's nose in a fight, he decided that I "needed a change of space."

When he had informed me of his decision to move our family of three away over the summer until I "calmed down," I was absolutely livid and broke a vase against our kitchen wall. It didn't get any better when he coldly told me that I was still grieving, and that I simply didn't know how to handle my emotions. It's not that what he said was wrong; it wasn't; only that it wasn't the whole story.

My Dad doesn't think I'm sick. But I know I am. I know that I'm not stable, and that my mentality may very well be broken. I think I found out when I realized that me hearing my Mum's voice all the time wasn't normal, and seeing my mother's tired expression in reflective surfaces definitely wasn't something that would happen to someone sane.

But, alas, my Dad doesn't believe me. He tells me that I'm over reacting.

So here I am a week into our stay here sitting at a faded desk that looks so unstable that if I lean too much weight on it, the legs would snap off, writing a journal. Well, it's not so much a journal, but rather me just putting my thoughts on paper as a way of venting out emotions, which I had a lot of trouble doing ever since my mother left me. There are many things I can write on dead paper, than I would never tell a living person. You can never know who you can trust.

Dad doesn't want me writing. He found a similar journal-diary type thing a few months back and after he read through the written form of my twisted thoughts, he forbade me from doing it again. He said that it was only feeding my fantasies. But obviously that hasn't stopped me.

However, it is true that it tires me out quite a bit. I find that after I write for a long time, I feel both mentally and physically drained; especially when I write about my condition.

So, instead I'll write more about the house.

It really is just like one of those English nobles' houses, with the tall hedges, bricked walls, spiked fences that lock, and even small buildings scattered around the grounds for the servants and workers. However they will probably remained untouched, as no one but us three will be staying here, and we'll probably only use a few rooms in the main building.

The garden is my favourite part of the estate. It's just so beautiful! It's designed to be separated into three circles, a smaller section inside another, inside another. And at the north, east, south, and west ends of the outer circle, a different breed of tree is planted. They have yet to fully mature, but they are already big and sturdy, and their higher branches reach out over the circular garden like thin fingers that slowly creep above me to shield my eyes from the sky. I know that Mum would have liked it here too.

My favourite tree is the fig tree found at the south side of the garden. It's the direction where Shiganshina is; where mum is. I have spent a lot of the time my Dad has allowed me to be by myself here, where I close my eyes and try to make my mind go blank.

Despite the enchanting beauty of the garden, I still can't escape the ominous feeling I get around here.

A few nights ago I had mentioned to Mikasa the strange feelings I get, but she just looked at me sceptically, and then gave me my dosage of pills my Dad had prescribed. She said it was just a draught and closed the windows.

I get so angry at Mikasa and Dad sometimes. Although it is true that I was short tempered as a kid, it was never as bad as I am now. Again, this boiling rage began when she left. Everything started when she left. She must have started my condition also.

But I still try my best to control myself, at least under either of their supervision.

There are only a few hours in the day where I am truly by myself, and the rest of the day one of them stays with me; watching, observing, guarding me.

They are both so careful with me and take good care of me; Mikasa especially. Ever since the day we met when we were eight, my sister and I have formed a sort of bond, an attachment, and a strong co-dependency. Despite my annoyance, she had become a protector of sorts, and in return I give her a home where she is loved. The proof of me keeping my side of this unspoken bargain is the red worn scarf that has permanently found a place around her slender neck. I have noticed that whenever she is feeling anxious, she pulls the fabric over her nose and holds it there, as I had once done for her.

I won't go into much detail about that night. All I will say is that it was a significant day in both of our lives, and had cruelly twisted our fates to intertwine.

Perhaps that was also the catalyst for my mental downfall. All it took was my Mother's death to shatter the crack.

But back to the house.

I detest my room. It isn't even an actual room; it's a basement. It's not too bad, but I wish I could have had the room upstairs that opened out to the piazza, and wafted the delicate perfume of roses through the large window. The interior of that room was a considerable improvement from its exterior, with warm cream walls, beautiful chintz hangings, and an intricate engraving in the ceiling. But Dad said that it was too far from the rooms he and Mikasa had claimed, in case there were to be an emergency they would not be able to reach me efficiently – which I think is a lousy excuse, since the distance from their rooms to my basement was no shorter.

My 'room' was spacious and airy, but still had the effect of making me feel claustrophobic, as most basements do. It was only submerged into the earth half way, so a narrow strip of glass that ran across the top of the wall on one side spills a warm glowing light into the room when the sun is just about to set, making it all look as though the room has filled with red smoke. If only the window was facing the opposite side, the light that filters into my room would have been the beautiful glow of the early morning, and made the interior look like sunshine galore, rather than a crime scene.

From what I can judge, this basement had been used as a playroom, gymnasium, and a nursery (don't ask me why they would keep children down here through). The windows are barred by old rusty poles, supposedly to keep children from climbing out of them (again, I have no idea how they would have reached it in the first place), and there are numerous rings and bolts imbedded into the wall, which I'm guessing was there for the absent gym equipment. Another indication that this was occupied by careless children is that parts of the wallpaper have been stripped off in great patches, making the room look a bit like the fur of a Dalmatian dog. It's especially bad around the metal headboard of my bed, and the lower section of the wall.

The walls, in my opinion, are an abomination to anything and everything artistic.

The wallpaper itself is of a putrid mix of grey and green, like mould that grows on cheese that has been left at the back of a fridge for an unknown length of time. The blotches and streaks of colour never quite immerse, but rather try to seep into the other, then repel, weave, curve, and form such a confusing and irritable pattern, for it is subtle enough for there not to be one, but pronounced enough to evoke the unfortunate viewer to spend their entire attention trying to figure out the damned thing. I know I should have given up days ago, but it keeps playing at my mind, and I find myself lifting my face from my pillow to trace the curves and bends with my eyes.

Beneath the paper, you can faintly see the outline of bricks, but not like the uniform ones you would see in normal houses, but rather an equally confusing mix of small and large stones that have tactfully been piled on top of each other into a vertical surface. I wondered why the designers bothered putting up a wallpaper in the basement of all places (any why this awful pattern?) but after I came to the conclusion that the stonework must have been worse than the alternative, I grudgingly accepted it and tried to distract my inquisitive mind from imagining what the room would look like without the paper.

It's no wonder that the children hated it! I too would come to hate it if I am kept here too long.

I can hear Dad coming down the stairs, so I will end here for now. He hates my writing.

* * *

We've been here two weeks and I hadn't felt like writing until today.

I've found a way to manoeuvre my body up onto the windowsill where I can balance my bodyweight with relative ease, so that's what I'm doing now. I have a good view of the garden from here, and am closer to eyelevel if I were to be standing on the grass outside. If I pretend the bars that line the window are not here, the smells and sounds are enough to trick myself into believing that I am outside where I love. Today there is nothing to hinder me from writing all that I want.

Dad has been away for the last few days on some serious cases. He sometimes comes in to collect a few things from his temporary office, or to catch up on his deprived sleep. I'm perfectly fine with this. I'm just glad that he hasn't classified me as a 'serious case' yet.

Dad doesn't understand how I really am. How I feel. All he knows is that there is no _reason_ to suffer, and that satisfies him.

I feel I should be doing more to help Mikasa, but just going through the motions of everyday life tires me out. Even on the days where it feels as though all I did was breathe, I still collapse into bed feeling exhausted, but sleep does not grace me until at least the early hours of morning.

I hate that I am nothing but a burden to Mikasa. I should be supporting her, not weighing her down.

I had talked to Dad about this wallpaper, and initially he assured me that he could get it changed. But after a while, he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that there was nothing worse for a nervous patient like me than to give way to such fancies.

"After the wallpaper it will be the windows, then the stairs, then the gate, the hedges, the cutlery. One thing will only lead to another" he had reprimanded me. "And anyway," he had said "there is no practicality in renovating when we are only staying here for three months." I couldn't argue with him.

I'm actually getting quite fond of the basement, except for the horrid wallpaper, that is. I enjoy watching the stripes that form along the walls when the light passes between the bars, and patiently wait as they slowly creep across the room. I have made a game of following the shapes to try and move around without being hit by the light.

I have also learned to recognize the areas I can see from the view at my windowsill to the places I go on walks. I can recognize the gnarly trees, the flamboyant flowers, the odd ornaments that litter the grounds, but there are also lots of areas that I can't remember exploring. Either I haven't seen it yet – which is unlikely – or I simply can't recognize the areas from this perspective. They are heavily clouded by shadows, and the occasional rustle of the dense leaves may just be my imagination.

I get so lonely on this estate. I appreciate Mikasa trying to reach out to me, but she has never been a very social person, so is restrained and awkward about it. But I still desperately crave some form of companionship other than my sister. I want someone to ease my loneliness, and someone who is willing to listen to me when I need to vent my thoughts. My Dad said that when I get better, we can invite Armin up for a few nights. Depending on how I act to the presence of my childhood friend, he may be able to stay for the rest of the summer too.

Armin and I have known each other since we were toddlers. Mum had been friends with Mr and Mrs Arlert before they went missing on an archaeological expedition in Greece. Armin had stuck by me through both good and bad times. He had seen me at my worst, and was always there when I needed him. The prospect of getting to see him again was enough incentive to have me on my best behaviour.

I wish I could get better faster.

But I really shouldn't think like that. This wallpaper taunts me like it knew how it stirred up my emotions in violent waves!

There is a particular spot where the greys and greens seem to swirl into a knot, then unwind into two collections of concentrated speckles of the two tones. They are another set of eyes that keep me under constant surveillance. They swim up and down the waves of the walls, never dropping their deranged gazes from me. The eyes are everywhere! There is one particular spot where the blotches are uneven, and a disfigured face watches me with a malicious grin.

It both fascinates and terrifies me just how expressive inanimate objects really are!

These observations resurface old memories I have of analysing the winks and grins the objects in my room had as a child, and how I would cling to an old wooden chair that sat in the corner, for it was so broad and old, a perfect guardian to protect me from the dark.

But the objects in this room are conflicting with one another, and create a tension that vibrates my bones. Perhaps this uneasiness is what made the children that were in here such savages!

As I wrote before, parts of the wallpaper had been torn off, and when I had taken a closer look at the vandalism, I was astonished by how firmly the paper clung to the stone beneath it, and marvelled at the surprising power and perseverance of these children. I had mused that I would have fit in with this crowd, for many people have both praised and condemned me for my determination and will power. I would have enjoyed the challenge to tear off this hideous paper. It appeared as though they shared the same heated hatred for the thing as me.

The walls are not the only things that are damaged. The floor and door, too, is splintered and scratched. Some parts have even been gouged out by means I am ignorant to.

I can hear Mikasa moving on the floor above me. The subtle squeaks and protests of the floorboards under someone's weight travels down the frames to reach me with ease. I have memorized the difference between Mikasa and Dad's footsteps, and how many paces it takes them to reach my room. It has helped me conceal my hobby from them.

I can't trust even Mikasa with my secret. I know that if she were to find out, she would definitely side with my father. Not because she favoured him over me – quite the contrary, actually – but she is concerned about my mental health, and would do anything to help me. I wouldn't be surprised if she too believed that it was the writing that is making me sick.

So times like this where she is out of the house is strangely liberating, though it is accompanied by an underlying guilt. I know well in advance when she returns, for I have a perfect view of a lovely shaded road from my window, which she always takes when leaving or returning from the outside world from where I have been banished.

I have noticed that for a few minutes at dusk, perhaps due to the angle of the light, I can see the outlines of the stone behind the wallpaper much clearer, so it almost looks as though the stones and the paper have merged to surround me on all sides. However it also looks as though the walls have formed a separate dimension between the frontal designs and the far background. During these crucial moments, I can vaguely see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure that looks to be sulking, strolling or simply standing as though in a daze, either in front or behind this strange stone wall, I cannot yet be certain. I'll have to wait for tonight and maybe tomorrow's sunset to confirm. But something is there, and this something is big. If it were not so far away, I am sure they would tower over me like giants. Perhaps that is what they are?

I can see Mikasa walking up the road!

* * *

Fourth of July has finally passed!

Dad thought it would do me some good if I had a little social interaction for a change, so he invited a few family friends over for dinner, including Armin.

I was delighted when I saw his familiar golden hair passing through the dense forest that surrounded the house, and would have called out to him if only I had the energy. When he stumbled out of a particularly tangled bush, his cerulean eyes caught sight of me leaning against my favourite fig tree, and immediately lit up as me sprinted the short distance to my side.

I had tensed up when he had thrown his arms around my neck excitedly, but I trusted him after over a decade of knowing him, so I relaxed in his embrace and soaked up his warmth, only then realizing just how much I had missed him.

When Armin pulled away, his eyes were shining with moisture and he told me how worried he was. It pained me how I was unable to express just how much I had missed him too, but I knew that Armin didn't need words to understand that I reciprocated his feelings. We were always able to connect on and emotional level, and he somehow always understood exactly what I was feeling.

Perhaps that was why he recognized how anxious I was during the Fourth of July dinner, where there were so many people in the room, and I felt my lungs constrict, denying me of the oxygen I so desperately needed.

It was when I had passed my nervous gaze across the room that I saw her, Carla, standing in the doorway, watching me with sad eyes, that the colour drained from my face and I felt the earth beneath me disappear, spiralling me into a bottomless pit.

The tingling in my fingers from the lack of oxygen and light headedness were signs of an anxiety attack I was very familiar with.

I had not seen her in so long, her sudden appearance in my conscious mind had set me off, no doubt for a humiliating psychotic episode if it were not for the warm hands that slipped into mine.

When I looked up with fearful eyes, I saw Armin's gentle features softened out not in worry or pity, but understanding.

The fear slowly dissipated, and my breathing was no longer erratic.

All the while Armin kept looking into my eyes, electric blue clashing with my once vibrant green.

To me, Armin was safety. He always was, and even now when I couldn't even trust my own mind, he was still there for me.

When he saw that I had calmed down, he sat beside me on the extravagant couch as everyone milling about chatting and sipping from wine glasses ignored the both of us.

Not long after Mikasa sat down on the other side of me, and for a moment I felt completely normal, as though nothing had changed from how they were when we were children.

I felt safe, but most of all loved.

By the end of the night I was exhausted. Armin and Mikasa had politely directed any guests away from me when they tried to talk to the odd son of the great Dr. Jaegar, of which I was grateful for. So the whole night I had practically spent on either the couch in the lounge, or the stiff chairs around the dinner table. I hardly spoke the entire night. I was fine with that.

Dad disapproved greatly of my lack of social behaviour, and had warned that if I didn't pull myself together some time soon, he would have no choice but to send me to the MP Psychiatric Institute.

I knew a girl named Annie who was sent there for a year, and she had told me in her usual monotone voice that they were like Grisha, only much, much worse. Her own father was a colleague of Dad, and that was how we met. I was intimidated by the petite girl because of her cold demeanour, but after the initial tension we tolerated each other well. She had taught me a few wrestling moves when we used to wait for our father to get off from work, which was always a painful experience, but came in handy when Jean and I fought (which was often).

I never found out what she was treated for, and I doubt I ever will. All I know is that when she returned from the MP Institute, she was different. She was just so… empty.

The thought of being sent there terrifies me.

So I try my best to act 'normal', but it gets so hard.

I cry about nothing, and cry a lot of the time.

Of course I don't when Dad is here, or anyone else; only when I am alone. Dad is still kept in town quite often for cases, and Mikasa and Armin are always good and leave me alone when I ask them to.

I often take walks through the garden and when I find a secluded spot, I lie down and just let go.

I really am beginning to become fond of this room in spite of the wallpaper. Or perhaps _because_ of the wallpaper!

Unlike most things which are faint in my mind, this wallpaper is so distinct. It brands itself into my thoughts!

For hours and hours I lie on this solid bed – which has been nailed to the floor – and choose a point at which to start, and decide for the hundredth, no _thousandth_ time that I _will_ follow that illogical pattern, wherever it leads.

I know there is no pattern to follow, but as I have mentioned I am of a determined nature. I follow the swirls and puffs of colour intently, vertically and horizontally, sweeping and jumping through panels of paper. I thought I recognized a pattern, some kind of repetition along the diagonal, which added to the confusion marvellously.

At times they looked like rain that beats upon a window, others like drops of ink which clouds gracefully into a vial of water. Other times they were explosions so violent they sent debris flying to the opposite side of the room. Sometimes they were tangles of seaweed, hastily chasing after scurrying marine life that flees through currents.

All this has made me tired.

I think I'll have a nap.

* * *

I don't know why I should write this.

I don't want to.

I don't feel able.

It's getting progressively harder and harder to keep my writings secret from the others.

Dad had agreed to let Armin stay here for the rest of summer, so he has taken the room which I had originally wanted. But I don't mind. He can have whichever room he likes, so long as it is not mine.

I do feel that writing is a great relief, for it releases some of the strain that builds up in my mind, and gives me a bit of quiet from my poisonous thoughts.

However recently the effort to keep writing is more than the pleasure it gives me.

Most of the time now I have neither energy nor the will to do anything. I am so lazy, I feel as though I am wasting away in this house.

I had attempted to ask Dad to let me outside the estate, and tell him that I thought it would do me more good than being kept under house arrest.

It was no surprise that Dad refused, saying that I would not be able to handle such exposure.

Admittedly, I did not make a good case for myself as I had begun crying before I had finished saying my plea.

It is getting increasingly difficult for me to think straight recently.

After my embarrassing nervous breakdown, Dad had gathered me up in his arms and carried me down into the basement, lay me on my bed in a way he had not done in many years and said to me; "Eren, you are my son and I want what is best for you. But right now, you are the only one who can get yourself out of this situation. You have to use that will of yours to get better. Do you understand?"

I had nodded numbly, dazed and confused by his sudden show of affection.

"Good." He stated simply and pushed himself off the bed. Just before he closed the dark wooden door behind him, he had called back, "As soon as you manage that, you can leave this room and its wallpaper for good."

I had thought then that it was a good thing that Dad had forced me to take this room, for I knew that neither Mikasa nor Armin would have been able to stand this wallpaper as well as I have.

So in the silence of the room, I continued to watch.

There are things in that paper which no one knows but me, or ever will.

Behind the front patterns, the dim shapes get clearer every day.

They are also growing in numbers, and I have noticed that none are exactly the same, but are very similar.

They look like people, but at the same time they don't. They look like people who have grown some form of mutation, or are disfigured to an extent.

But the common denominator in all of them is that they are big. Very big.

I begin to wonder – to think – perhaps they… I wish Dad would get me out of here!

* * *

My condition was not something that we talked a lot about, but I felt the need to do so desperately last night.

However it was well past midnight and I knew that everyone was already asleep, and I hated the thought of having to wake them. So I decided to stay up until morning, as I knew that trying to fall asleep was futile. There were too many things playing in my mind then.

The moonlight was shining through the barred windows much like the sun does, but it was very different from day.

The shadows seemed to move slower, and rather than gliding they seemed to be crawling.

And I continued to watch the wallpaper in the moonlight.

The faint figures behind seemed to press up against the pattern, as though they wanted to fall through into my room. I saw them shake and push sluggishly at the wall, and I wondered if the pattern actually did move.

I do a lot of thinking when I can't sleep at night. Everything is so still, and my thoughts come to me clearer that in light.

I was thinking of my Mother. My dear Carla, who held me tenderly and whispered softly into my ear. I thought of the stories she would tell me, of the ancient myths and fables which would make me vibrate with excitement or cower in fear. My favourites were the ones that evoked both potent emotions in me.

There was one in particular which stuck to me even after all the years that have passed since I first heard it. It was of mythological creatures called Titans, also known as the 'elder gods'. They were divine beings who ruled the Earth during the Golden Age. If not anything else, these twelve deities were _powerful_.

When my mother began telling the story of the Titanomachia, my skin would erupt in goose bumps, and I would be so immersed in the battle being told that I felt as though I were standing among those fighting the decade long war.

When she reached the part where the Olympians overthrew the Titans and banished them to Tartarus, as a young boy I was always overcome by a confusing mixture of nervous excitement, disappointment, but an unfamiliar feeling that burned in my gut, which now I can only describe as the destructive desire for revenge. It had never occurred to me then that I had felt so strongly about these gods that I, too, had become one in mind and heart.

It was while I reminisced of my precious time with my mother, that the connections had finally been made.

When I processed the idea, a harsh gasp fled my lips to pierce the silence of the room.

Those creatures were Titans.

The gods who I worshiped as a child, they were outside the walls and trying to reach in.

They were here; the Titans were here.

My entire body began to shake, and that familiar explosion of emotions bloomed in my chest, and reached through to the very tips of my toes.

But then another thought came to me.

If the Titans were always with me, what were they doing all this time?

If all that was separating them from me was a stone wall, why had they stayed quiet when my mother succumbed to her demons?

What were they doing then?

"Eren?"

I span to see the tired form of my sister standing in the doorway, her ebony hair un-kept and loose fitting clothes crinkled from use. Her narrow eyes were squinted as she tried to identify me in the darkness. I on the other hand, had no trouble seeing in the dark, probably from spending so much time away from light.

I must have made more noise than I thought I did. But Mikasa had always had trouble sleeping, so it wouldn't surprise me if she had been up already.

"What are you doing up? You'll get cold." Mikasa had said, walking into my room lightly until she stood to my right.

I had no intention to tell her about the Titans in the walls; I was sure that she would tell Dad, and he would send me away to the MP Psychiatric Ward as he had warned.

Instead, I thought it was a good time for me to tell her my thoughts; that I was not gaining anything here, and that I wanted to leave.

Her usually expressionless face showed hints of alarm, and she gently placed her hand onto my bony shoulder. "Eren," she whispered "our lease will be up in another three weeks, and there's no use in going through the hassle of leaving early."

She led me by my elbow until we sat down on the edge of my bed.

"Dad's working on a serious case at the moment, so he can't leave until the patient is stable. If you were in danger here, then it would be different, but you're safe. And Eren, you _have_ been getting better, whether you see it or not. You've been eating more, you look better, and you're actually getting some sleep – quite a bit, actually."

I had shaken my head forlornly. "I haven't gained any weight, and I may eat more at dinner where you can see me, but I hardly have anything in the mornings. Sure I'm sleeping a lot more, but I still feel so tired all the time. I'm just really – I can't be here anymore, Mikasa."

I was surprised when she pulled me into her side in a one-armed hug; it was very rare for her to show affection outwardly like this. "Don't worry Eren. We can talk about this in the morning. For now, rest."

"You won't go away?" I had mumbled.

She looked at me tenderly, and I stared in astonishment when her lips curved slightly upwards into a tight smile.

"When we leave here in three weeks, how about you, Armin and I go away for a bit? Maybe pack my car with clothes and money, and go on a road trip. No destination, just driving to see where the road takes us. We could even go to the ocean. You told me once that you wanted to try it."

I knew she was only saying this to cheer me up. There was no way Dad would allow me to wander all over the country without medical assistance. It was but a fantasy to keep the prisoner happy in his cage for the rest of his sentence.

"You _are_ getting better." She said with finality.

After a final squeeze, she dropped her arm and made to exit the room.

"Better in body perhaps –" I began and stopped short when she turned to look at me, her face stern and reproachful.

"Eren, please never say – no, don't even think of something like that, ever again. Dad said that there's nothing more dangerous to a temperament like yours than those kinds of thoughts. If you can't trust him as a father, can you at least have trust in him as a doctor?"

So I said no more as I listened to Mikasa's light footsteps climb the staircase and follow her into her room, where I heard a click as the door was shut behind her.

Instead of resting as she had told me to, I spent hours staring at the walls, wondering if there was a way for the Titans to come in.

* * *

I have noticed that the pattern changes with the light.

When the suns light leeches through the window into the room, the paper defies all artistic laws, and is rather subdued, and a constant irritant to the normal mind.

As if the unreliable and infuriating colour was not enough, the pattern is torturing.

Just when I have thought I have mastered it, and have somehow succeeded in following it, it does a back-somersault to the opposite side of the room, and bam it's gone. It seems to slap me in the face, knock me down and then tramples over me. It's a nightmare.

The outside pattern reminds me of fungus. If you can manage to picture an endless convulsion of toadstools jumping over one another in waves of mushrooms; it's something like that.

Well, sometimes.

It seems as though no one but myself has noticed the way it changes throughout the day.

The moment the first light of morning enters the room, the paper changes so quickly it's very easy to miss. That's why I make sure to be awake every morning to witness the moment carefully.

I'm always watching it.

When it is night, I almost don't recognize it as the same wallpaper.

No matter how late into the evening, the outline of the stones beneath the paper becomes far more prominent, and I can see the forms of the Titans loitering outside. With every passing day, I can see the Titans far clearer, and I can pick up the finer features of some of them.

By day they are slower, quiet. I wonder if it is these walls that keep them that way, rather than rampaging the earth with their mighty strength, the way they used to during their reign.

I spend so much time lying down. Dad says that it is good for me, and that I should sleep all that I can. He has started making me lie down for an hour after every meal, and I comply. I usually keep my eyes shut and regulate my breathing so they think I am asleep. I feel bad about it, especially when it is Armin who I am deceiving. Whenever he comes down to see me during one of my 'naps', he usually rests a delicate hand on my forehead and keeps it there, or plays with my hair soothingly. I hate that I am lying to him, but the fact is that I simply can't sleep, and it's always safer if they thought that I really am getting better.

The fact is that I am becoming a little afraid of Dad.

He seems so queer at times, and even Mikasa has an inexplicable look.

I can't help but think that maybe it's the paper!

Once when I had walked in after a walk in the garden, I had caught Dad sitting on my bed, just _looking at the paper_. Mikasa too. I caught her touching it once.

She didn't notice that I was in the room, and when I had very quietly asked her what she was doing with the paper, she had spun around and looked like she had been caught stealing, and reprimanded me not to scare her like that.

Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, and she had found grey smooches on all of my clothes. She told me to be more careful.

I knew that she had been studying the pattern, and I was determined than no one find out about the Titans but me!

* * *

Life is far more exciting than it has been for a very long time. I have something to expect, to look forward to, and to watch. And I do eat better now, which pleases Armin a lot.

Dad, too, is pleased that I am improving. He laughed a little the other day, and commented how I was getting better in spite of the wallpaper.

He doesn't know that it's _because_ of the wallpaper.

If he did, he would mock me, and may even try to take me away. But I won't let him.

I don't want to leave now until I have figured it out. There is a week left, and I think that will be enough.

* * *

I'm feeling so much better. I hardly sleep at night, but I make up for it during the day. It is so perplexing during the day.

I have recognized slight changes in the pattern; new sprouts and different textures over the fungi. I usually spend my nights finding them. But no matter how hard I try, I can never count; there are just too many.

It has such a strange colour, that wallpaper. It reminds me of all the other grey and green things I have seen; though never the good ones. I think of the pavement that lines the streets in Shiganshina, or the way my grey trousers got stained green when I skidded across grass playing sport. I remember the dull tone of weathered tin roofs when the rain drizzles down without a break long enough that it drags you down into the gutters as well.

But there is something else I notice – the smell! I smelt it the first time I walked down into the basement, but with all the windows and doors open, it wasn't so bad. For the past few days the weather has been dreary and covered in a dense fog, so despite the windows being open, the smell is always present.

It doesn't stay in the basement anymore either. It creeps around the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, sulking in the parlour, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.

It gets in my hair, too.

Even when I take a walk through the soaking garden with Armin's blue umbrella, I turn my head suddenly – there is that smell!

I have spent hours trying to analyse it; to figure it out. It is such a peculiar odour. I'm not at all sure how to accurately describe it.

It's not a bad smell – just odd. At first it was very gentle, and one of the most enduring odours I ever met. But in this damp weather it is awful. When I wake up in the night I find it hanging over me.

I couldn't stand it at first, and I was seriously tempted to burn this house down just to reach it.

But now I am used to it. They only way for me to accurately describe it is that it's the smell of the _colour_. A greenish grey smell.

* * *

I have started to pay closer attention to the Titans.

At night when they are liveliest, I used to cower from them and watch from the safety of my bed, just observing these strange creatures as my family does of me.

I am now absolutely certain that they are trying to come in.

Through the thick wall, I see them clawing at the surface eagerly, and snap their jaws down at me.

They truly are very big.

When the time is right, the walls grow from a little over two meters to fifty meters. I can barely see the top without my neck aching from straining to look up.

There is also a thin but long tear that runs down the centre of the wall with the window gracing the top. I have noticed that this is where most of the Titans gather. I speculate that this is where there is a weakness in the wall; perhaps a fault in the structure, or maybe a gate which I cannot see. This is where I am most weary of. If the Titans are to breach the wall, it would be through there. When I go to sleep, I slumber facing it.

When the sun sets, I see the maroon sky through the bars, and I am no longer in a basement, but outside facing a giant wall that separates me from the freedom of outside. I am in a cage; no different from cattle. This enrages me. But when the morning comes, it is gone and I am back in my room, but the situation has not changed. I am still a prisoner, only my cage has shrunk and grown a roof.

I am determined that one day I will get out. I will get out of this cage and be freed from my prison guards.

Yet it confuses me why the Titans would want to willingly walk into a cage. Was banishment not enough? Yet I still feel a strong connection to them. I identify with them. I have the idea that if only I knew how, I could join them. I can be one of them; a god.

All I need to find out is how.

* * *

I think the Titans get in during the day!

I know they don't get in my room – I would notice – but I have seen them outside.

Whenever I passingly look out of the windows, I see a trace of them. I catch the crowns of their heads bobbing above the tree tops, their shadow stretching across the lawn, their legs peeking between the trunks of trees. I know they are there.

I make sure Dad never sees me watching out for them. I know he would not approve.

I am very careful not to irritate him these days.

But it's okay. I don't want anyone else to let the Titans out at night.

I usually wonder if I would be able to see them out of all the windows at once. But try as I may, I can only see out of one at the time.

From the very highest floors of the house, I can just see a few fields of grass in the far distance. Sometimes, I am able to see their shadowy forms walking in the fields.

They are always coming towards me.

* * *

I have been trying to figure out a way to let the Titans in. I know the key is the gate in the wall, but it's hard work when the other three in the house are weary of me. There are only two days left.

I think Armin has begun to notice. He has always been so smart. I don't like the way he watches me, as though he is alert and afraid, always ready to react to any emergency.

I heard him asking Mikasa a lot of questions about me. She always answered simply and honestly, as was her style.

She tells him that I sleep well in the day. He knows I do not sleep at night, for he checks up on me regularly at night and I am always too quiet.

He asks me a lot of questions too, though he tries to keep the interrogation light and discreet. As if I couldn't see though his aim!

I think he, too, has begun to be affected by the paper. There is no question that Mikasa and Dad have been already.

* * *

I'm seething with rage.

It was a little after lunch and I had perched myself on the windowsill again, when it came to me.

I was thinking about my mother, as I used to do a lot. I was wondering why she did that to herself. My memory of her was always happy and pleasant. She was my eternal light; my unmovable strength. So I could not come up with a possible trigger for her choice of choosing death over life.

But what if it was not her? Why would a strong woman like her choose suicide? She wouldn't.

So the only conclusion I could draw was that it was not her that had ended her life; she was killed.

My heart started to beat furiously, and my finders began to tingle.

Yes, why had I not realised this before? It was so _obvious_! She was killed; _murdered_! My beloved mother was killed! But by who? Why?

I started hitting the back of my head against the wall behind me.

Who was it? Who did it? _Who killed Carla?_

And then I looked out the window, and I knew.

Outside I saw a Titan; clearer than ever before. It stood on the south side of the garden, partially hidden by my fig tree. And it was watching me. It's glazed eyes started right into me, and I knew. I _knew_ who – what – it was.

"It was you…"

Yes, I understand now. That is why they did nothing to protect my mother. They were Gods; they could have intervened. But they chose not to, because they were the ones who did it.

And they certainly had the strength to do it.

The Titan outside my window was tall, lithe, with a mop of dirty blonde hair. But what struck me was its smile. No – grin. Its thin lips were stretched across its face, almost splitting it in two. The expression was filled with taunting mirth, and I was overcome by an unbearable blood lust.

They took her from me. It was all their fault.

But what could I do? I was a human – a broken one at that. I was weak; so utterly helpless.

Can those who are weak do nothing but cry?

No. _No_.

On impulse I stuck the fingers of my right hand into my mouth, and bit down. Hard.

It was a habit I had since I was young. I remember fondly how my mother would tease me that I was being a little Titan by biting myself.

That was exactly what I wanted.

For I am not human. I am a monster. I remember what Armin had once told me; to overpower a monster, you had to be prepared to abandon your humanity.

And that is exactly what I am going to do.

* * *

This is the last day, but it is enough. Dad had to leave to town for an emergency, and won't be back until evening.

Armin said he wanted to sleep with me in the basement, but I convinced him that I would rest better if I was alone.

He didn't know that I was far from alone in this room.

As soon as they sun began to set and I knew Mikasa and Armin were on the other side of the house, I started my mission.

In the burgundy light of the room, I jumped to the wall with the window, where I knew the gate was.

I hooked my finders under the peeling paper, and pulled.

I ran along the perimeter of the fifty meter wall, yanking and tugging at the paper with a desperate ferocity I have not experienced for a very long time.

I could hear the groans and shrieks of the Titans as they came pouring into my cage. Yes, come. Come into my domain, where I am at an advantage. For three months I have been imprisoned here; I know all there is to know about his wretched place.

Yes, come in. Come in and meet my wrath; meet the son of the goddess you killed last year.

By morning I had ripped off yards of paper.

The bare expanse of stone that wrapped around the room reached a little above my head and the base of the floor.

When the sun raised and the remaining wallpaper taunted me, I declared I would finish it today.

We are leaving tomorrow, and my time limit was slowly running out.

When I didn't come upstairs for breakfast, Armin had come down to check on me and stared at the torn paper in amazement. When he asked me what had happened, I had gleefully said that I did it out of pure spit for the vile thing.

He laughed and told me he wouldn't have minded joining me, and said I needed to take it easy.

How he betrayed himself then.

But I am here, and no one touches this paper but me – not _alive_!

I told him I would sleep until we needed to leave; I would call when I woke.

So now he is gone, Dad is gone, and so is Mikasa.

I enjoy the room now that it is bare again.

But it is not enough. I need to get back to work.

I have locked the door to the basement and thrown the key out the window, an old-fashioned thing with descent weight and a gold colour. The head is in a diamond shape, and was quite beautiful. But I had no time to admire it. It now lies under a berry bush beneath my window.

I don't want anyone to come in, not until Dad returns.

I want to astonish him.

I managed to peel off all of the paper I could reach from the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it!

I try not to accidentally look out of the window. There are just so many Titans outside. I wonder if all of them came out of the wall as I did?

Will I have to go back behind the wall when night falls?

But I will not go back without a fight. Yes, I have something I need to do. A promise I made to her; to Carla.

The redness from the sunset has not left. The red has still stained the walls and floor, but it is no longer light. No, they are deep scarlet splatters of liquid. Somehow it is familiar. I know what it is.

Blood.

Not just any blood though, it is my mother's blood.

They bloom around the room like grand roses; so beautiful yet disturbing.

Blood.

_Blood_.

Yes, I know what is happening. I know what I will do.

There is Mikasa at the door!

It's no use sister, you can't open it.

She sure can yell loudly.

Now she's crying for an axe.

It would be such a shame to destroy such a beautiful door.

"Mikasa," I call in a gentle voice "the key is outside my window, beneath the bushes."

It was quiet for a bit.

This time I heard Armin's trembling voice, "Open the door, Eren."

"I can't!" I called. "I told you, the key is outside my window!"

Then I said it again, over and over so gently and erratically that they had no choice but to go and get it.

It didn't take very long for the two of them to burst through the door and stop in their tracks, their faces contorting in fear and confusion.

"Eren, my God! What are you doing?!" Armin shrieked, his face blanched and lips quivering.

I kept swaying backwards and forwards where I knelt, both hands lifted to my mouth, littered with bite marks that have torn the flesh off from the bone. I looked over my shoulder with a grin that rivalled the Titan that ate my mother, my mouth smeared with blood and chunks of skin and flesh.

"You can't separate them from me anymore! I've breached the wall, it's fallen! They're here, and finally I can do it, I can avenge mum!" I cackled brokenly, and I felt my gaze harden, and lips pull back into a snarl. "I'll kill the Titans! _Every last one!_"

Now, why would Armin faint? I have to climb over him every time I pounce onto the Titans to tear at their napes now.


End file.
